


Accipiter gentilis

by enviropony



Category: Original Work
Genre: Birds of Prey - freeform, Captivity, F/F, Magic, Shapeshifting, Tenderness, Trapped In A Tower, Wales perhaps, vaguely British Isles setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviropony/pseuds/enviropony
Summary: There is a lady in a tower, and a bird on the wing.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13
Collections: Femflash February 2020





	Accipiter gentilis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruis/gifts).



> See end notes for minor warning re: animal harm.

Ffion sees the goshawk for the first time when flower buds are peeking up through a late snow. The bird glides by, a striking profile against the robin’s egg sky, only a few rapid beats of the wings to keep aloft between one edge of the field and the other. A female, she thinks, larger than she’d ever seen in her father’s mews, with a wingspan almost as long Ffion’s outstretched arms. Even at a distance, she can see a hint of the fiery red eye.

A chill breeze snatches at Ffion’s hair, and she closes the window of her tower. Beyond it, she can see the hawk alight in an old elm tree on the northern side of the field.

\- - -

As the weather warms, Ffion leaves the window open longer, and glimpses the hawk in flight as she sews, writes, reads, or lies staring morosely out at the open sky.

She’s been in the tower for almost two years. Her captor had become frustrated after the first few months, when Ffion had refused to lie with him, and her father had refused to pay a king’s ransom on a fifth daughter. Gwenallt’s magic was a tenuous thing, gifted only so long as he himself refrained from violence, so he’d been unable to possess her as he wanted, and had abandoned her in the tower as revenge.

The tower is tall and its walls are unnaturally smooth. There is no climbing down. There is no rope to rappel with. There is no door to the lower floors, if any such exist, and only the one window. There is no way out.

The tower’s single room is sparsely furnished. There are a handful of books - some merely bounds sheafs of blank paper - an ever-filling inkwell, a large pile of varied cloth, spools of yarn, and a few needles. They are all remnants of Gwenallt’s attempts to woo her, near-valueless things he hadn’t thought to take back as his frustration turned into retaliation. The magic of the tower provides water, coarse bread, leafy greens and the occasional small chicken, which Ffion has to dispatch, pluck and cook herself if she hopes not to wither and die of poor nutrition. She’s become quite adept at this, and saves the feathers to stitch little down pillows, or a fanciful cloak.

Ffion’s gotten a new chicken today, and the doomed bird’s alarmed squawks have attracted attention from beyond the window. She sees the goshawk glide by once as she restrains the chicken, then again just as the deed is done.

She bends her head to pluck the bird, but is startled a moment later to hear the fwp-fwp-fwp of beating wings at the window. When she looks up, the goshawk is perched on the windowsill, red eyes piercing her own. The hawk ducks her head to look at the chicken, then back up at Ffion, as if to say, _Well, get on with it!_

Ffion, thrilled by this new development in her monotonous existence, begins to pluck the chicken with slow, measured movements. Every time she glances up, the goshawk’s bold, red eyes are fixed upon her hands or her face. If she holds that wild gaze, the hawk stares back, a challenging, eerily unblinking look.

The chicken is plucked, bled and deboned before the hawk moves from her perch, and then, astonishingly, it is not to leave but to hop into the room, a casual flap of wings to bring her to the stone floor an arm’s length from Ffion. Ffion stares, awed at the fearlessness of the creature, and the hawk, again glances pointedly between her face and the chicken.

“Give a minute,” Ffion says softly. “I’ll cut you a piece.” She takes up her sad little eating knife and saws off a leg. The hawk focuses on the meat, but doesn’t get closer. Ffion tosses the leg forward in the most gentle motion she can; the hawk doesn’t stir a feather, save the red eyes tracking the arc of its meal through the air. The leg lands with a sad little squelch. The hawk snatches the meal and hops back a few feet, but doesn’t leave.

“You’d best savor that,” Ffion warns. “It’s the only meat I’ll have all week. I hope you’re grateful.”

At her words, the bird freezes, head darting up to meet Ffion’s eyes. A harsh kek-kek-kek issues from the sharp beak, almost questioning in its tone–

And suddenly Ffion is faced not with a goshawk, but a woman, loose-limbed and dark-haired, dressed in soft leathers, legs akimbo as she sprawls on the stone floor.

“Truly?” the woman asks in a rich, smooth voice. “This is all the meat he gives you? Then why, by the Goddess, would you share it with me?”

Ffion stares, shocked and speechless. She opens her mouth, but only a breath comes out.

“I’m sorry, I’ve startled you,” the woman says, then stares down at the raw chicken leg in her hand. “And this must look appalling.” She looks around, but there’s no plate to set the thing on, so she puts it back on the floor. A whisper and a sparkle of magic, and her hands are clean again. “My name is Aderyn,” she says.

“I’m… er, I’m Ffion,” Ffion says. “I didn’t think there were any shapeshifters left in these parts.”

“There aren’t,” Aderyn replies with a small smile. “That’s why I came here. I didn’t think there was anybody in Gwenallt’s tower.” She looks down, and her tone turns ashamed. “When I noticed you, I thought you’d chosen to be here voluntarily, and just… I didn’t give it much thought, to be honest, that I never saw you go outside. But now I see there is no door. He’s been an ass again, hasn’t he?”

“More than that,” Ffion says, bitterly. “Do you know him?”

“A cousin,” Aderyn says. “We knew each other as children. I thought he’d gotten over this possessive streak.”

“Not at all.” Ffion glances out the window, then back at Aderyn. “I don’t suppose your magic might extend to freeing me from this place?”

Aderyn shakes her head, but there is a smile playing at the elegant curve of her red lips. “My magic, no, but the tower’s? If my lady will grant me a few hours’ patience, and that fine feather cloak, I think I can work something out.”

Ffion nods, gesturing to the cloak. “My hands are, er… well, I suppose there’s not much point in cooking this chicken, is there?”

“On the contrary, I haven’t hunted today,” Aderyn says, rising. She is as graceful on foot as in the air, spare in her movements as she steps past Ffion to retrieve the cloak. Ffion’s gaze catches on the curve of her hip, and doesn’t leave it for a moment. “If my lady would take care of dinner, I’ll take care of her means of escape.”

Ffion forces her eyes back to the chicken. There is wild garlic in the mix of greens today. That should suit nicely. She regards the stray chicken leg on the floor. Two years ago she’d have turned up her nose, but waste not, want not. She scoops it up and adds it to the old copper pot she cooks in.

Ffion will turn out a decent meal for two, she thinks, and not save any of the bird for tomorrow, because hope is a wickedly powerful thing.

\- - -

Ffion cooks, Aderyn chants, and in two hours’ time there is something like chicken stew set near the little table by the window, and a pair large, red-feathered wings lying on the bed. Ffion insists they eat first, because Aderyn looks tired, and Ffion, trapped these long two years, is suddenly terrified. Terrified of failure, but also of change.

What is she supposed to do when she’s free?

Aderyn is quiet as they eat, but when the chicken and the bread are all gone, she nudges Ffion's foot under the table, boldly familiar. It's a charming contrast to her genteel speech. "Fear not, my lady. You'll be free of this place shortly, and I won't leave you to fend for yourself."

That is more reassuring than Ffion was expecting. A weight seems to life from her shoulders, and she doesn't have to force her smile. "Thank you. You are too kind."

"Nonsense," Aderyn says. "If anything, I should have noticed your plight sooner." She forestalsl Ffion's protest with a wave. "Come. We should get going. If there is anything you wish to save, you'll need to toss it out the window. The wings will only carry you and the clothes on your back."

Ffion takes a look around, but there is nothing that she wants. Even the little down feather pillows, she thinks, will only remind her of this wretched place. "There is nothing here I want," she says. "Show me what to do."

Aderyn offers her a hand, and Ffion takes it, charmed again, and thrilled to feel the soft, warm skin of another against her fingers. Aderyn doesn't let go as she leads Ffion to the bed; she seems to know that Ffion craves the contact.

"Hold out your arms." Ffion does, and Aderyn drapes the chicken feather wings across her back and limbs, sprinkles magic to bind them to her wrists, her shoulders.

Ffion feels lighter, suddenly, hollow, but not in an unpleasant way.

"Flap them," Aderyn says.

Ffion flaps, and her feet lift briefly, gently off the floor. Her heart pounds, bird-fast. Aderyn smiles, and takes her to the window.

"Even if you don't trust the magic," Aderyn says, "I do, and that's all it takes." She helps Ffion climb into the window casement, hands warm and firm on her waist. "I'll push if you want. Fear not. Just spread you arms, that's all you have to do."

Ffion spreads her arms beyond the tower falls, leaps, and soars.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> The [northern goshawk](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northern_goshawk), or _Accipiter gentilis_ , is a favorite of falconers in all corners of the world. They are fierce, bold hunters that have been known to follow prey into chicken coops and even houses. They have a reputation for escaping their handlers during the hunt and never returning.
> 
>  _Warning:_ A chicken is dispatched, non-graphically, for dinner.


End file.
